Empty Places
by orpheneritus
Summary: [George and Fred Post War] It is hard to fill the empty places left by the war.


Empty Places

His mother stands in the doorway, sun streaming in from behind her. She holds William on her hip, ignoring his attempts to grab her glasses with flailing arms. 'I think it's best for now, George. I'll look after him until things get back…'

He is grateful she doesn't utter the words. George hates the word normal.

'Don't let her,' Fred murmurs in his ear.

He shakes his head. 'Fred doesn't want you to,' he objects.

Her face hardens slightly as she shifts her grip on the toddler. 'I think that if Fred were with us, he would do what's best for William.'

She apparates with a hollow crack and the house is left empty. He wonders why his mother suddenly thinks she can speak for Fred. 'I'm not listening to you anymore,' he murmurs to Fred.

His mother must be feeling guilty, because Ron is stepping through the fireplace and brushing the soot from his robes. He doesn't really want to see his brother, but allows Ron to make tea and set the cup down in front of him.

George grabs the fire whisky from the mantle and sloshes the drink into his tea.

Ron frowns. 'This is why she won't let you have him.'

The tea is awful. So he drinks from the bottle instead. 'Tell her to bring him back tomorrow.'

Ron shakes his head. 'She won't.'

George stands and offers Ron his cloak. 'He's mine… Tell her to come by tomorrow.'

It's Hermione Granger who brings him back. Her cheeks are flushed an angry red, her arms trembling slightly. William cries when he pulls the child from her. 'Why are you doing this?' she asks, voice trembling.

'Fred,' he replies as if it's an answer

She stares at him intently, breath evening out a little. 'He's yours?'

'Sure,' he says, silently begging William to shut up.

'Then why did Fred…?'

He looks to Fred, but his brother only shrugs with a careless grin. He doesn't reply and she leaves.

He grits his teeth against the pain, tightening his grip on his wand. He thinks it's getting better, or maybe it isn't. His eyes always skip over his atrophied hand, but today he needs to do his spells left handed, things can be unpredictable if he uses his right.

When the last box of Wildfire Whiz-Bangs slide into place he sits on the floor and rests against counter. William looks up at him solemnly before trying to shove a spinning top in his mouth. He doesn't bother taking it away.

George holds his hand against his body waiting for the pain to subside. 'I have to,' he murmurs.

'No you don't,' Fred replies.

'It's not forever… just for now.' He sighs struggling to get back onto his feet.

'Now will turn into forever,' Fred whispers.

George pulls the sheet over the counter covering the register and display case.

He won't let that happen. He turns to say so, but Fred is gone.

William crawls over to him and pulls himself to his feet using his pant leg. 'Dada?' the boy shouts bouncing unsteadily on the balls of his feet.

'I'm not your dad,' he says sweeping the toddler into his arms.

He renews the warming spells in the lounge room and afterwards he doesn't quite feel like dying. He flexes his fingers gently, cringing as the joints grind in an effort to bend. He should be excited about the improvement, but he isn't.

Fred sits on the floor watching William, who looks right through him. 'Getting big,' he comments.

He frowns at his twin, 'You're just saying he needs new pants.'

William turns at the sound of his voice and stares at him in confusion. Fred quirks an eyebrow and nods at the boy. He thinks his brother might be right. Williams' pants no longer reach his ankles.

Scotland is cold in the winter, so he caves and buys the boy some new clothes.

His funds are getting short. His savings from the shop dwindling. Rent, food, cold and cough potions, soon he'll be forced to return.

There is Fred's money, but he is saving that for William.

William kicks his feet as he tries to pull the pyjamas up his legs. They're fuzzy and red, with little feet attached to keep his toes warm. William would rather run around naked. 'Definitely yours.' Fred winks at him with a lecherous grin.

'Daddy,' the boy protests as he tries to push his arms through the sleeves.

'Not your dad,' he replies mechanically.

Just when he thinks the money is gone, the money starts to reappear. He doesn't spend it right away, but then William gets a cough. His whole body shudders with each mucous filled cough. It's disgusting. The boy won't sleep, so he doesn't sleep. William sits in his cot and cries, face hot, nose streaming. He's forced to pick him up before he cries himself into a coughing fit.

So he uses the money.

The apothecary in Stow is run by a muggle born wizard, one of the only wizards in the area. He picks up a calming draught, pepper up potion and a flask of decongestant. He has been congested for the last couple of days.

'Chicken soup,' the wizard says.

'Sorry?'

'Muggle cure,' he says holding out a scrap of paper.

George frowns at the list of ingredients, awkwardly hoisting William in his arms.

'Go see Ms Gillian.'

Ms Gillian sends him home with a load of groceries and a sheet of painfully detailed directions.

Fred is no help in the kitchen. He idly sits buy while he struggles with the muggle instructions, trying to translate them for magic.

William laughs when he tries to light the muggle stove with his wand and his robe catches fire. He hasn't heard the boy laugh in a few days.

Eventually they eat chicken soup.

They are sick for three days.

He reads muggle books while sitting on the sofa. When William falls asleep, they rest together on the sofa. When William is awake he plays on the rug.

He reads about cooking first. He tries to figure in charms and spells, sometimes with success, sometimes not.

When they feel better he makes pancakes with strawberry jam. William eats three. He eats three himself. Fred smiles, head propped up in one hand.

George is surprised to see him. Acid flares in his gut; he hasn't seen Fred for days.

He leaves the kitchen and runs up to the bedroom. He pulls the box from under the bed and scatters the belonging across the floor. There's so little left. A few pictures, smiling and waving, a couple fake wands, a Skiving Snackbox, and Fred's jumper.

He grips the brown jumper tightly to his chest.

The room is dark. William is standing unsteadily at the door. 'Da—'

His wand flies into his hand, grip steady and sure, the door slams shut. He ignores the cries for as long as he can.

The owl tumbles through the window, thrown by the strong winds of the high country. He recognises Pig immediately.

The small owl flits about annoyingly, and he is only a moment short of stunning the damned bird, when it swoops over Williams' head and he sees the boy trembling, partly in fear, partly in wonder.

He coaxes the bird to the table with a piece of bacon and unties the letter. He takes William's small hand in his own and gently brings his fingers to brush against Pig's feathers. The boy's fingers trail over the breast, occasionally grabbing in excitement. He leaves William with Pig, letting the boy feed the greedy little glutton the rest of bacon.

It's from Ron, and somehow he isn't surprised.

George,

I've reopened the store again and am keeping the books with some help from Wilson. I haven't mentioned where you are to Mum, but let us know you're all right.

Ron

Typically Ron.

He catches Fred smiling from the corner of his gaze, then realises it's his own reflection in the hall mirror.

He keeps Pig because William loves the idiotic owl. His reply is as brief as Ron's letter. _All is well. Put the Skiving Snackboxes on special before the preservation spells wear off. George_.

He's shopping in Stow, one hand occupied with keeping William from wondering off, when he realises it's Christmas Eve. He has missed William's birthday.

He crumples his shopping list and shoves it in his pocket. He buys a honeyed leg of ham, potatoes, parsnips and broccoli, Fred's favourites. When he passes the thrift store he pauses to look over the wooden train in the window. He ignores the nagging thought that he has overspent.

He animates the train set and lets William play as he cooks in the kitchen. Going over the muggle cookbooks he finds it would take several hours to cook the ham, so he cheats. The ham tastes strange. William doesn't care. He uses his fingers to shove ham into his mouth, followed by mash potato. George holds the heavy platter steady in his left hand as he clears the table. It makes him a little sad that it is healing so well.

The scream stops his heart as he is torn from his restful sleep. The room is still dark. It's five am.

'Daddy!' William's voice is thick with tears and trembling with hysteria. He doesn't know how he got out of bed, only that his feet are already carrying him across the cold floor. The door flies open.

His face is covered in blood, streaming down his chin and onto his pyjamas. Tears stream down his face, he wipes them away with bloodied hands as he stumbles towards him.

He catches him in his arms and rushes him to the kitchen. 'Help me Fred, help me,' he cries. But Fred isn't here and hasn't been for almost a year. '_Help me_.'

He sits William on the counter close to the sink. 'Look at me,' he whispers.

William cries harder pressing forward into his chest. 'William,' he cries holding the boys face. 'Look at Daddy.'

The little boy looks up at him. It's a nosebleed. He casts a simple blood clot charm, but it doesn't work. He grabs the kitchen towel and presses it to Williams nose, pushing his head back, but the bleeding doesn't stop. The blood soaks through the towel and he knows this is wrong. A nosebleed doesn't bleed like this.

The floo powder sits on the mantle. Mum would know what to do. He presses William's hands to the towel. 'Hold that for Daddy.' The boy nods tears trailing down into the bloodied towel.

As he reaches for the floo powder his foot sends a box skittering across the floor. _Skiving Snackbox_. The nosebleed nougat only half eaten. 'Bloody hell,' he swears with a choking laugh. He grabs the nougat from the floor.

'Eat this,' he orders pulling the towel from the boy's nose.

He almost has to force the boy to eat it, but the blood stops almost immediately and eventually the tears stop too.

He pulls off his own bloodied nightshirt and then strips the boy's pyjamas. The bath washes away all memories of the nosebleed. As he dumps water over William's head he remembers it's Christmas day.

He doesn't write before going. He stands at the door of The Burrow unsure about his welcome. The decision is taken from him as Ron pulls the heavy door open and leans against the frame.

'Coming in George? We're about to eat.'

He is only moments through the door when his Dad sweeps William up in his arms. He finds himself smiling and he can't seem to stop. Smiling makes him feel like crying. Mum is standing in the kitchen, she's thinner than he remembers and it's his fault.

'George,' she says with a wide smile. She presses a box into his arms, 'Open it now, then.'

At the sight of the maroon jumper he knows everything is okay. He pulls the jumper from the box and a little navy blue jumper tumbles out, gold W on the front.

He joins the others at the table. The room fills with the warmth of friends and family. Hermione is there, she stands very close to Ron, and his brother is looking happy. She leans over to him.

'Is he really yours?' She asks again.

He doesn't know. 'Does it matter?'

She nods thoughtfully. 'No,' she smiles. 'Not at all.'

When they sit he pulls out Fred's chair to his left and lifts William into it. It's good to feel a presence in the empty places.


End file.
